Reflections in a Looking Glass
by JadeHeart
Summary: The mirror shows our self as noone else sees.


**Author:** JadeHeart Gravitation   
**Warnings:** thoughts of violence  
**Author's Notes:** Just a little something that suddenly spurted out. It's about what do people really see when they look in the mirror.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters in this, they belong to the creators of 'Gravitation'.

Reflections in a Looking Glass

There should be cracks, he thought, reaching out a hand to touch the smooth surface. A long finger traced over the image before him, following the contours shown there.

It is supposed to reflect truly, so there should be cracks. He could see them; even without this reflection, he could see them. He knew they were there. He felt them shift, moving against each other, edges rubbing raw.

They had been present since he was sixteen. No, he amended, longer, further back than that. From the time he was old enough to understand the strange looks given to him, the whispered comments, the taunts from other children at school who were at least more honest than their parents in saying what they thought. From the time he realized that he was 'different', odd, not normal.

He hadn't truly understood why that seemed so important back then. He didn't feel any different. Each day he opened his eyes to the same world they did, it looked the same to him as it did to them, except for one thing. Him. When he looked in the mirror he saw himself. When they looked at him they saw…a stranger.

The talk didn't go away over the years, it didn't ease. It became worse actually, more obvious. His mother would get so upset sometimes, when the taunts became slurs on her character, implications that he was a bastard, a half-breed. She would cry sometimes; he could remember that.

His father would become more stoic, drawing the mantle of a monk around him like a coat of armour. People would never dream of saying anything, either directly or even within hearing of him, but his mother was a different matter. And so was he. He was the much easier target.

When he was young, there were only two people whose eyes mirrored his own view of himself; his brother and his sister. Because of them he could maintain his hold on himself, refuse to break, he could remain who he was.

He wiped away the steam misting the glass, watching the moisture streaking the surface, making the reflection weep. He had shed many silent, angry tears back then; quietly, unheard, unknown, before putting on a smile once more to face the world.

He dipped the razor in the water and placed it against his cheek. Then he met someone who had made such a huge impact in his life, someone who wanted to help him, someone who wanted to remove him from the hurtful words. Another person whose eyes reflected him back with no judgments and no bias. Someone whose eyes told him he was loved.

He scraped the razor downwards, letting the blade follow the contour of his jaw. New York had been like heaven. He felt the rasp as the blades cut away the stubble. There were no more taunts, no-one looked strangely at him. He could run and laugh, and feel free for the first time. He had been happy there. He had someone to care for him, look after his welfare, someone who smiled indulgingly as he gushed over all the new and exciting things to do.

Even his studies were a whole bright new world because he found someone else there. Someone who had been so unexpected, and over time became so very, very important to him.

He watched as the razor curved under his jaw across the soft underside. He tilted his head back a little to allow it better access. He could feel the carotid pulse bump against the blade and he placed further pressure on the razor as he drew it over his sensitive skin.

During that time, as his feelings grew stronger, every day became more and more wonderful because he would be seeing him. He worshipped him, idolized him, eager to talk to him, always wanting to do things with him, for him, wanting to be like him, be praised by him. In every way, he loved him - down to the bottom of his young adolescent soul. Until…

He drew in his breath with a sharp hiss as the blade dug in, nicking the flesh. He watched the tiny bead of red well to the surface. Red - bright red. It hung there for a moment, and then slowly, so slowly, slid downwards. He reached up and ran a wet finger in an upwards sweep, collecting it and wiping away all traces of its presence. He dripped the stained digit into the water clouding the basin before him. If it were only so easy to wipe the past away, erase the memories from your mind so you could forget it ever occurred.

He hadn't been able to wipe the blood away that day. He remembered the feel of cold, hard hands, the smell of alcohol, the slurred voice; the voice of a stranger coming out of the mouth of a familiar face. He recalled the confusion and fear, the doubts, the blame - heaped on himself, and on the other.

He lifted the razor once more, laying it against the side of his neck. He couldn't remember the sound of the shots. Strange that what he did remember was the flash in the darkness, the tiny spark of light igniting with each pull of the trigger. It should have been a ray of hope, of salvation. Well, it had been - salvation for him. But that light had also been the spark to ignite the powder keg of death for the other.

He remembered weeping, crying silently, hot tears scorching his face as he knelt there in that room, the room that had once been his sanctuary, and was now his Hell. His hands had clutched at the weapon, held onto it tightly, unable to let it go.

He had been found there. Found by the one person who he had left. The person who always did everything for him, who had been happy he had been happy. That person had arrived completely breathless, almost kicking the door inwards, rushing to his side. He had felt those arms enfold him in a tight embrace, felt the other's warmth, the strength. He remembered hearing the broken whispers, the desperation and heartbreak colouring every word. The apologies, the self recriminations, the pleas for forgiveness.

He had felt the hands try to take the gun from him. He couldn't let it go. It was the last thing that incontrovertibly linked him to that person he had thought had been so special. If he let it go, he would lose that last remaining connection.

His hands had then begun to shake, his fingers spasming, loosening their hold. His chest had hurt, it was tight, squeezing the breath from his lungs as the tears continued to trickle down his cheeks. Finally he felt the cold, sleek metal slip from his grasp, and with that release, a loud animalistic howl clawed itself from deep in his guts, wrenching itself from his throat, to be voiced in the night air. He remembered he couldn't stop it, that heart-rending sound. It couldn't be called crying - it was far, far beyond that. There was no adequate word to describe that sound.

He had been held all that time, and he had clung to that body of warmth with all his might, fingers digging in painfully as his raining tears soaked the shirt his face was buried in. His body had shook so hard every muscle ached with the strain.

He rinsed the razor again, watching the tiny flecks swirl in the cloudy water. He moved the razor to the other side of his face.

He didn't remember stopping crying. He didn't remember leaving that place. To this day, he didn't know how the other had extricated him from that nightmare and to safety. He never asked the other how was everything resolved. He only remembered that warmth, and that voice repeating over and over again, that it would be all right, he would make it all right, he would protect him at all costs, that he could never let anything happen to him again. It was repeated over and over like a mantra, a promise for all time. He remembered the feeling of relief, of hope, those words created. He had believed those words with all his heart. He knew he would always be safe.

He dropped the razor into the cup in the cabinet and pulled the plug, watching the water spiral around the basin, circling inwards ever tighter, before disappearing into the darkness below with a soft gurgle.

That promise had been kept - kept to the point of obsession. He knew that; he was quite aware of it. Perhaps he shouldn't have let it go on so long. No, no 'perhaps' about it. But he had needed it, especially back then. He had needed to know always, deep in the back of his mind, that that promise was real, that it would always be so. No matter what he did, or what he said, that person would always be there for him. He had been selfish; completely and utterly. Perhaps the obsession went both ways; one the protector, one the protectee, feeding off each other's needs, and fears and regrets.

As the last of the water vanished from sight he reached out for the small towel. He lifted it to his face, seeing the dark brown contrast starkly against his white skin, tinged slightly pink after its depilation. He watched as the towel wiped away the traces of moisture and soap that still clung to his skin in places. The image looking back was marred with streaks of moisture running downwards.

There should be cracks, he thought, watching it. Cracks so wide and deep they could swallow you. He had thought he would shatter back on that fateful night, but he hadn't. He had gone on; stubbornly clinging to his existence, but to do so, he had changed. He had killed the person he had been back then. That person had died with that special someone, as surely as a bullet had ended the life of the other. He had become a new person, one who wasn't going to be deceived again, be used, be broken. He would ensure he would always be the one to do the breaking. Never again would it be the other way. He had thought he had succeeded in that. He thought he had buried his previous self deep down in the depths. Until…

He came along. An impossibility in his life, something he had never come across before. He had no idea how to deal with this enigma; this strange, bizarre oddity that had suddenly appeared and thrust itself forcefully into his world. This person had been something completely unwanted, unwelcome, and unneeded. Or so he had thought.

This strange person had begun to resurrect his previous self; digging up that long buried persona, raising that rotting, stinking corpse from the past like a demonic zombie master, thrusting it into daylight once more, forcing him to face it, face himself, and all that he was…..and all he had tried to hide from.

And with that harsh, brutal, callous purging, he had actually begun to find some peace. A strange kind of peace as it still hurt and tore him apart, both in mind and body, but a peace nonetheless. He hadn't realized how much he had needed it, how much he had wanted that, how much had been missing in his life. Until then…until him.

He looked at the image before him. It still looked like it was crying, the marks like cracks, criss-crossing across the visage. He reached out a hand and wiped them all away, turning to the door and opening it.

"About time! You were taking forever in there!' The youth before him was frowning fiercely at him, jigging from one foot to the other. "I'm busting to go to the toilet!"

He looked down at this bundle of inexhaustible energy in front of him. It seemed that every day there were less cracks showing, the picture was becoming clearer, another piece of the jigsaw was correctly put in place.

"Well, hurry up and go, and stop whining," he said, turning away. "If you wet yourself standing there, I'll rub your face in it."

"Jerk!" Shuichi yelled, followed by the sound of the slamming of a door.

Yuki poured a coffee and lit a cigarette as he sat down. Yes, it seemed that the image was becoming just a little clearer.


End file.
